The headaches always made him feel helpless and hopeless — draining and, for some reason, demoralizing him. He trudged toward the sanctuary. By this time, the disturbances in his visual field resembled the revolving lights of several converging ambulances.
At six feet tall, Al could reach up high enough to fish around on a top shelf in the church’s foyer to retrieve the sanctuary door key. He and the elders had found out the hard way — after a couple of break-ins — that thieves and vandals respected no building, churches included. To deter theft and vandalism, church elders kept the sanctuary doors locked securely when the building was unoccupied.
With the key in hand, Al struggled to unlock the sanctuary’s double doors, still nearly blinded by the migraine’s visual display. He pushed his cleaning cart aside and entered the darkened sanctuary. Since light sensitivity from the migraine had borne down upon him with full force, he chose not to turn on the house lights.
He began to make his way by sliding his hands along the walls. Then, as the familiar and extreme pain began to pound like a sledgehammer on the right side of his head, he doubled over and staggered to one of the wooden pews to lie down.
Hour upon hour, he lay writhing in nearly unbearable pain and fighting off severe nausea. Finally, after what seemed much too long, his agony gradually diminished until it had almost entirely subsided. He stood slowly and blinked, still feeling the aftereffects of his light sensitivity.
With a restored sense of purpose, Pastor Al trekked toward the front of the sanctuary, massaging his temples as he went. Once there, he clicked on the dim lights just around the altar and gazed up at the massive cross-and-dove sculpture that never failed to lift him up. Complete ease eluded him, though, as the heaviness he’d felt throughout the day now engulfed his soul. Sapped by the recurring thoughts of the graphic news video, he continued down the aisle to the altar. There he slumped to the floor and lay prostrate before the Lord. He began to pray and cry out, casting desperate pleas upward.
“What do you want of me, O God? Here I am before you. I’ve come from having much to having little. What do you want me to do for you here? Why have you brought me to this city? Please reveal your plans to me. So much change for me here, dear Lord, dear Friend. So much trouble in this city.” His cries turned to groans.
Pray for Mannford, Al!
A Voice. The Voice shook Al to the deepest innermost parts of his soul.
“Yes, Lord!” Al responded and began to pray even more intensely. “Forgive me for all my sins, dear Father. Forgive this city for our sins!” As tears overflowed his eyes from the weight of his burden, he pulled off his glasses and slung them aside.
“Oh, Lord! We are a hurting people, a wounded people.” Al choked back a sob. “Right on the news, O Lord, I saw that brother die. So many more of us are dying. Our hearts are broken for them all, for that family, for the policeman involved, for Mannford — and indeed for our whole nation. Please move, O Lord! Do something special among us. We rely only on You. Save us, O God!”
Al continued, persistent in prayer, calling out to the Lord long into the wee morning hours. He had brought to the altar a small mustard seed of faith. Now an altar soaked with his tears. Now an altar of prayer and praise, which flowed beautifully and steadily upward to the Father’s throne. His humble pleading was a pleasant fragrance that had reached to the God of all creation who sat, all-powerful, on His throne.
Al finally stood. He had left the consuming burden he had come in with upon the altar. He had indeed thrust his heart into the Lord’s hands. With a certain peace and understanding of what he was called to do, Al made his way out of the sanctuary. His very spirit itched with fervent anticipation; his soul was comforted with an unmistakable assurance that God would perform a complete, powerful, and all-sufficient work for Mannford. With renewed strength, Pastor Al let himself out of Mannford Christian Fellowship, locked the door securely, and made his way home.
The angel Davion took up his sword and beckoned for Kishner, the mighty one, to accompany him. Together the two bowed in humble adoration to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. One glance toward the Godhead put them at ease. They shifted with light speed and strong wings of might past the portal of eternity. With rolls of thunder and flashes of lightning, they entered time. They flew through the night until they reached their primary destination, where they set their feet upon the soil of Earth.
Strong winds whipped and swirled. Large droplets of rain welcomed their arrival. Davion and Kishner moved regally. The glory of the Lord shone round about them and, indeed, radiated from them. Without obvious effort, the two moved toward a majestic squadron of heavenly angels that stood ready and positioned just outside the metropolitan city of Mannford.
Freeshaun, an immense and imposing presence, stood alert at the city’s entrance, his massive hands clutching a bronze sword. His long braids hung down his back to his waist and swung about as he stood watch over Mannford.
Davion acknowledged Freeshaun and spoke. “We have come at the Lord’s bidding.” He nodded toward Mannford.
“So be it, brothers.” With a shake of his mighty head, Freeshaun flashed a joyous, gleaming smile at Davion and Kishner and ushered them into the midst of the celestials who had been assembled in the brilliant golden light emanating continuously from heaven’s throne room. Then, together with the squadron of celestials, Davion and Kishner flashed toward a point above a sanctuary. There they stopped — and began to hover over the altar where the man Al Shepherd prayed.
Chapter
6
Marquise padded to the door and turned the key in the lock as quietly as he could. He didn’t want to wake his sweet baby girl and certainly didn’t want to draw attention to himself by stirring Keiana. He let himself in, then glanced down at his damp, smelly clothes and grimaced.
If Keiana caught sight of me she would not close her mouth for two days, he thought with a wry smile. Marquise tiptoed into the laundry room where he stripped, placed the wet pile into the washer, and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower. As the hot water ran over his body, he squeezed liquid men’s soap into his hands and over his dreads and muscular shoulders, then every inch of his body. As he scrubbed with a loofah sponge, he wished he could wash away the images from the night’s events as easily as the water washed away the soap.
His body clean, Marquise padded silently into the bedroom and slipped in beside Keiana. He was thankful his outspoken girlfriend was sleeping soundly. The shower had done little to ease his eyes, smarting from the tear gas, so he wiped at them and stifled his coughs as well. He punched his pillow, not just to make himself comfortable but also in frustration with the night’s events. He lay restless long into the night — replaying in his mind all the things that had occurred that day and that night in Mannford.
Still awake into the wee hours of the morning, Marquise moved closer to Keiana, feeling her warm breast against his chest. Her scent soothed and comforted him, and he pulled her closer.
“Come on, baby, not now,” she whispered. “You know I got to get up in just a little while for work, boy. Plus, the other night when we got busy, we woke up baby Nisha.” Keiana took Marquise’s face in her hands and gave him a couple sleepy, quick, smacking kisses on the lips before turning over. He listened as she fell back asleep, her deep breaths flowing slowly in and out.
He sighed, hit the pillow a couple times in frustration, and rolled onto his back, clasping his hands behind his head and glancing out the half-moon window. Once again his thoughts recounted the surreal incidents he’d experienced just a few hours before. I’m going back. This crap is ridiculous. Can’t believe it. Right here in Mannford! Brotha cut down before his time. Why? Why is this stuff happening? I’m going back!
No answers came. Finally — only minutes before the alarm sounded — he fell into a fitful sleep, filled with vivid, jagged dreams.
Marquise dragged himself
out of bed and went into the kitchen. He welcomed the smell of coffee and also Keiana’s bacon, potatoes, and eggs. “I need some straight-up black coffee this morning. Hungry, too,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his growling tummy. Keiana was sitting at the table next to smiling little Nisha, who was propped in her high chair. “Look at my baby girls.” Marquise kissed both, in turn, on their cheeks. Baby Nisha reached her chubby arms up to Marquise. At the same time, the flash of her two-toothed grin, provoked laughter from both Keiana and Marquise.
“Look at her, Marquise. She is a daddy’s girl.”
“She sure is, Ke! That’s Daddy’s bay-bay,” he said, reaching down to pick her up.
Keiana slapped his hand away and frowned. “Wait ’til she’s finished with her oatmeal, Marq. You know I won’t be able to get her to eat it once you two start playing.”
“Okay, baby,” he answered with a chuckle. “Dang, girl, you up early cookin’ up a storm. That breakfast smells good.” He poured himself a hefty cup of coffee and then loaded his plate with her delicious offerings. He glanced at Keiana’s empty plate. “You want some more?”
“No thanks, baby. Would you pour me another cup of coffee, though? Somebody woke me up, and it wasn’t baby Nisha here.” Keiana smiled, rolled her eyes, and poked out her lips.
He laughed and kissed her quickly as he placed her cup in front of her.
“Sorry, baby. You smelled so good with that perfume you’ve been wearing. What is that fragrance? ’Bout to drive me crazy, Ke. Mm, mm, I thought I was going to get me some,” he mumbled.
“Boy, don’t be saying stuff like that in front of Nisha.”
“Nothing wrong with my bay-bay knowing that her daddy loves her mama.” Marquise put his plate down and went back for juice.
“Uh, Keiana,” he paused, trying to decide how much to tell her about what had happened the night before. “I wanted to tell you something, baby.” He paused again.
“What, Marq?”
“Me and Lawrence went to that protest downtown last night. You know, uh, the protest they were talking about on CNN.” Marquise walked back and took his place at the breakfast nook.
“Baby, are you serious?” Keiana answered, incredulous, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. She slammed the cup on the table, causing the coffee to splatter out onto the placemat. “I can’t believe you two, Marquise. Isn’t it enough that one black man gets killed right here in Mannford? You all want to add your names to that list?” The smile in Keiana’s eyes had been replaced by fear and anger. “You gotta be kidding me, Marquise. Are you two crazy? I just want to know how you all got down there.”
“Everything’s fine, baby. We took the Escalade and parked a few blocks away and then walked to where the protest was.”
Keiana shook her head. “Marquise, boy. Oooh! I don’t even know what to say to you right now.” She turned her back to him and finished feeding Nisha her last little bit of oatmeal.
“Ke—”
She put her hand up, signaling she was way done with their conversation. She gathered her and the baby’s dishes, rinsed them at the sink, and put them in the dishwasher. “I’ve got to shower and get ready for work,” she said abruptly and left the room.
Marquise grimaced at the sound of Keiana muttering as she headed toward the bathroom — fussing at the water, and the air, and everything else around her. “Boy must be crazy! What would have happened if he got himself killed? Baby Nisha? No daddy! That’s what would have happened? Boy must be crazy.”
Marquise grimaced again, turning his attention to his baby girl. He pulled her from her high chair, kissed her cheek, and hugged her to him. Nisha grabbed at her daddy’s T-shirt and held it tight in her chubby little fist.
“Dada, dada,” she sputtered with an oatmeal-coated mouth.
Marquise wiped the food from Nisha’s face, closed his teared-up eyes, and held his baby tightly to his chest. “With all that’s going on, what’s the future going to be like for you, little girl?” He kissed the top of his daughter’s head. “I’m going to do all I can to make things better.”
Chapter
7
Morning arrived too soon. Tyler squinted at the slivers of morning sun that escaped the blinds, then glared over at Laura’s empty side of the bed.
She’s already up and out in that art studio of hers, no doubt, Tyler thought and clenched his jaw in frustration. Throwing aside the bedclothes, he rolled out of bed and strode through the house. When he stopped at the kitchen window to glance toward Laura’s art studio, he noticed its door ajar.
“Just as I thought,” Tyler mumbled. On his way back to their bedroom, he passed a photo of Laura and him, smiling and happy. He was tempted to put his fist through the image. “What a joke.”
He jerked open his drawer and rummaged through its contents to find his warm-up shorts then grabbed his jogging shoes.
I don’t need this aggravation, Tyler thought as he headed out the front door, bare-chested, into the humid August day for his morning run. Laura’s stinking attitude and all this pressure on the police force — Man, who needs it? Tyler ran his usual five miles in a blind rage, his thoughts ricocheting between Laura and the previous night’s incident. That crap cannot happen again. We’ve got to be more vigilant, run a tighter ship, and not allow the crowd to take over like that, he thought. Dang vigilantes want to take the law into their own hands. They don’t know what we have to face out there. What police officers have to put up with. We put our butts on the line every day. Dripping with sweat, Tyler slowed his pace for a cooldown and then turned toward home.
The smell of coffee brewing as he entered let him know that Laura was in the house. He slammed the front door, and without acknowledging Laura, bypassed the kitchen and headed straight to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Shedding his jogging clothes, he jumped into the shower.
He felt more than saw her presence as he stood in the shower, but he still refused to acknowledge her. Stepping out of the shower, he squared his jaw and wrapped a towel around his waist.
“We need to talk,” Laura said.
Tyler could feel his teeth grinding. He knew what was coming. “Good morning to you, too,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Really, Tyler? Do you have to stir it up again?” Laura’s hands sat on her hips, her blue eyes narrowing and smoky with anger. Her dark hair swayed as she shook her head.
“Hey, I’m just trying to lighten the mood that you’ve darkened. You know, add a little cheer around here.” He pushed on the word to stab at her. “You’re the chosen one who keeps everything stirred up around here.” He exhaled heavily and ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t need all this right now. You have no idea what my evening was like, do you?”
Her eyes showed him that he was right. She had no clue.
“Turn on CNN and let them fill you in. As always, your artwork is more important than I am.” Tyler was filled with frustration and anger. “Didn’t even stay in bed with me long enough to say good morning. And now you want to talk? Is that how it works these days?”
“Tyler,” she said, sounding exasperated.
“We had to police a riot last night. But your needs always take precedence, don’t they? The world revolves around you.” He had meant to hurt her with that comment but didn’t feel the satisfaction he’d hoped for when she recoiled. His heart felt torn. He wanted to hug her but also to run. “You know what? I got back late last night. I am wiped out, so you and I will have to talk later. Much later!”
He tried to push past her, but she stepped in front of him, her eyes wide with shock. “Are you kidding me?” she yelled. “You promised me, you promised us, before you left for work early yesterday that you and I would talk this morning. Wow!” Laura crossed her arms. “And no, Tyler, I don’t think my artwork is more important than our marriage, or should I say, our lack of a marriage. Neither do
I think the world revolves around me! I do, however, want to resolve the problems, our problems, which you have been steadily running from for the last few months!”
Tyler exhaled sharply, threw off the towel from around his waist, and pushed past her — slamming the door behind him. The pressure from the previous evening and now this morning reached a boiling point within him. “I gotta get out of here,” he furiously mumbled to himself.
Laura swung open the door until it banged on the wall behind it and charged after Tyler. “Just how you closed that door, Tyler,” she pointed backward, “is how you’ve been handling things all along. You’ve built this huge, crazy wall around yourself. You won’t let me in, and you won’t come out.”
She began to cry, squeezing out words between her sobs. “I’m so lonely, Tyler! I’ve given up a lot for our relationship. I gave up my internship in Paris and my fine arts degree when we came back here to take care of your mom. I gave up so much, and you don’t seem to care. You don’t even give it a thought. You don’t share your life with me, and you won’t allow me to share mine with you. We never do anything together. No date night, no nothing. You live as if I don’t exist. You don’t even see me!” Laura’s shoulders shook with her tears.
“You’re really going to bring my mom into this?” Tyler demanded. “I didn’t ask you to give up on your fine arts degree. I didn’t even ask you to come back here with me when Mom got sick. No, Laura, that was all your decision. Oh, and by the way, I gave up a lot, too, in case you hadn’t noticed. Did you forget that I was on the road to the NFL? You aren’t the only one who has sacrificed.”
He didn’t want to talk about this any longer, especially right after everything that had taken place the night before. He finished dressing as quickly as he could and once again, without a word, pushed past his crying wife, leaving her and his sad abode behind.
Three Nights In Mannford Page 4